Maureen: from Pookie to Pookie
by Literaryluminations
Summary: The epic tale of Maureen, from Mark to Joanne. Eventual MoJo, with a touch of Maureen/Mark. High-T, at times. Now on probably-permanant hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Oh, my, I'm actually writing a story. Freaky, eh? I even wrote an outline for it, and everything! **

**A shoutout to my beta, Stalker (I-Stalk-Espinosa-xo.) She is awesome. Someone should go send her a PM telling her how awesome she is. She is _that _cool! She makes my story pretty. And, go read and review her stories. Because they rock!**

**I own my plotline; nothing else. And even that, I'm sure, has been done before... well, I hope not!**

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It had started out great with Mark, it really had. He was perfect--or, at least, in Maureen's opinion he was. Both were interested in similar things; or so they believed. Maureen loved the stage, and Mark loved filming her. She was happy, he was happy.

But then, one day, it all went wrong.

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It was a normal afternoon. The summer sun was shining down on New York City, practically baking its residents with the strength of its rays. Maureen and April were both hanging around the loft while their men were out; hoping to scrounge up some food. The pantry and fridge were empty--devoid of foodstuffs completely--and a certain drama queen was not happy with that.

"I'm hungry," Maureen complained, poking her stomach with a red-painted fingernail. "See how thin I'm getting?"

April laughed harshly, "Mo, it's been about two hours since you ate. What are you, a hummingbird?" Maureen nodded enthusiastically, getting up to check and see if the fridge was still empty. It was.

"The food fairies disappointed me," Maureen sighed, sitting down next to April on the duct-tape covered couch. "They haven't brought me anything yummy." April rolled her eyes, annoyed with the drama queen's antics.

"You're like a five year old at heart," the rocker-chick grumped, running her fingers through her damaged, dyed hair. Before Maureen could think of a comeback, the phone rang. April leapt off the couch and ran for the phone, crashing into the metal end of their kitchen counter. She rubbed the sore spot and spoke quickly into the telephone.

"Hello? Yes, it is April Ericsson. Wha-what?! Sure. N-no. Bye. . ." April trailed off, her pale skin turning a sickly, milky white. She almost seemed to glow in the dim light.

"Calendar?" Maureen asked, using April's least favorite nickname. "You okay?"

"Yeah." April didn't seem to hear her as she walked, zombie-like, to the bathroom. "I'll be fine. . . ."

"Just tell me if you need anything, okay?" There was no response. Maureen shrugged--if April wanted to talk, she would. Maureen had gotten used to her weird moods early on, so the drama queen closed her eyes and went to sleep; stretching out lazily in the sun.

She awoke to the feeling of a rude hand, shaking her shoulder. "Wha'?" She said sleepily.

"Maureen, this is no time to sleep!" Mark's face was drawn; grim-looking.

"Is it April Fools's already?" She asked, confused by his bleak look. Mark's face fell.

"April, well. . . April is. . .dead." He said, looking green.

"What?!"

"She . . . killed herself." Mark stared straight ahead. "I can't get Roger out of the bathroom; I think he's in shock." Under normal circumstances, Maureen would have laughed. Roger, in shock? But there was no laughter in Mark's eyes; only sadness . . . and worry?

"What do you think we should do?" Maureen whispered, sitting up and covering her mouth with her hands.

"Can you get Roger out of the bathroom while I call 911?" Mark stood up and walked to the phone, oblivious to the world around him. Maureen sat shock-still for a minute before slowly walking to the bathroom. How could this have happened?

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The priest went on and on about April--her life, her message, and some other bullshit like that. Maureen sat numbly in the front pew, one hand placed platonically on Roger's thigh. The once-confident man was hunched over; head in his hands. Mark sat on Roger's other side, his arm around his best friend's shoulders.

Maureen's head was still spinning. Everything had happened so fast! One minute April was there, the next . . . she wasn't. Mark had accompanied Roger to the hospital, leaving Maureen alone--in the very place where April had killed herself. It was creepy and dark there. The loft seemed to creak and shudder, as though it knew what had happened there. Mark and Roger had bought food, but Maureen didn't have an appetite for anything. She had seen the message scribbled on the mirror in the bathroom--'Roger, we have AIDS. -April'--and heard Roger's accusations that she could have _prevented_ this. . . She had seen the blood on the bathroom floor, and had thrown up in the kitchen sink shortly after. It was horrible, so horrible. Maureen shuddered, shifting around on the hard wooden pew. Did they try to make these benches so uncomfortable? She could remember her grandmother taking her to religious functions; Maureen had always hidden in the bathroom to escape the boredom. But now . . . now there was no escape.

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The day after April's funeral, Mark forced Roger to go to the hospital with him to confirm the diagnosis and get a prescription for AZT. Again, Maureen was left alone in the loft. She huddled on the couch, watching shadows move with wide eyes. She called Collins, but he didn't answer his phone.

For weeks, Roger continued to mope around the loft, getting high late at night and sleeping through most of the day. Mark seemed to effortlessly balance filming and watching out for Roger, but he had no time for his drama queen. Maureen felt like a fifth wheel--unneeded. After about a month, Mark found out Roger was still using, which had resulted in an almost week-long fight. The loft was no longer a safe haven; it was a battleground.

And Maureen was not happy, not a bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! You guys are just awesome! **

**Thank you, forever and ever, to my lovely beta, Stalker. You just made it so much better; I'm glad I have you! :-) P.S. Go read her stories. NOW!**

**A special note: The1000thKiss took my advice to heart and sent Stalker a PM saying she's awesome. YOU GO, GIRLIE! **

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Maureen was livid, simply livid. Her whole body wouldn't stop shaking, and she swore she could see red spots in her vision. How _dare _they! Her two remaining roommates were making her sick.

She twisted her hands together angrily. She was ready to kill Roger now, and Mark was next in line. She couldn't believe them! As it turned out, Roger stole the money Mark's mom had sent for food--to buy drugs (which he was supposed to be done with, _especially _after what happened with April). And then he wasn't the least bit sorry about it! Now they had no food, no heat, and no money. Mark, of course, thought that Roger was completely innocent and even dared to take his side when he called her a slut. Maureen screamed in frustration, glad that nobody was on the streets this time of night--no, it was morning, now.

The previous evening's events played through her head, making her all the angrier. Mark was ignoring her, plain as day. His friend--his hurting friend, but still not his girlfriend--was more important than her. For a month now, she had waited. Waited for anything, a sign that showed he loved her. A kiss, maybe, or a hug would have been nice; hell, even a pat on the back would be appreciated, if not cherished! Sex was out of the question; Mark just didn't have the heart. In the beginning, the lack of attention had been all right with her. She understood that Mark needed to help his grieving friend, who was going through withdrawal-- and she knew she wasn't cut out for that type of sensitive, caring, selfless work. But now, it had begun to get out of hand. She felt like she was drowning, forgotten in a pool of lost memories and past feelings.

_Weee-oooooooh_! A siren blasted through the once-calm street, shattering any semblance of silence there was. Maureen ducked inside a 24-hour drugstore to avoid getting run over by the cop car that was hurtling after a black Mercedes with tinted windows. She rubbed her eyes as they adjusted to the artificial, bright light of the store. As her vision cleared, Maureen spotted a newspaper with a very familiar face on it. _Benny! _

Without bothering to see what the article was about, Maureen picked up the newspaper and brought it to the bored, gum-snapping cashier. To avoid looking into the black hole of the woman's eyes, she stared at a little counter display. It had different colored pens on it. Maureen searched through them until she found a pen she liked--a cow-like one. It seemed to call to her, with its black-and-white splotches and fuzzy texture. It even had a little cow-shaped eraser on top, which made the child in Maureen squeal (internally. She didn't want to scare the cashier). She handed the cow-pen to the cashier.

"Is that all?" The woman sounded like a recording.

"Um, can you recommend anything else?" _Hey, it worked at restaurants…. _

The woman looked at Maureen like she'd grown another head, "How about a matching notebook?"

Maureen looked in the direction she was pointing; surprised to find that there was a bin of different notebooks. She sifted through before coming across one covered in black-and-white material, identical to her pen. She gave the cashier an award winning smile, paid with the loose change she scraped out of her jacket pocket, hugged her notebook and pen, and left the store with her classic hip-swishing walk.

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There was a choice to make now: head back to the loft, or find something to do to entertain herself. Maureen's choice was obvious, really--the apartment, which had once felt so safe, so loving, was now the center of her own personal hell, while restaurants were a welcome change, especially when some form of chocolate was involved. Maureen could even think of a perfect place: a little, family owned deli that served wonderful coffee and cake, and was open at this ungodly hour.

The quiet café was the same as ever; Maureen swore that everyday customers lived there. She skipped to the counter, hit the little bell a few times, and waited. Soon enough, the smiling, fatherly owner walked out and poured her coffee (black, with lots and lots of sugar), warming up a fresh piece of cake at her request. She could feel her muscles relax as she ate; the food was better than ever, and it lifted her spirits. She was on her third piece of cake before she remembered the article, the one with Benny in it. It read:

**In recent news, Benjamin Coffin the Third bought an industrial building on 11****th**** street from his father-in-law, Mr. Grey, to create a "cyber studio." Mr. Coffin used to live in the building and it was there he realized the prominent location and usefulness of ****its area****. The sale was made known last Wednesday, and Mr. Coffin hopes to have his studio up ****and running**** by January of next year. In it, there will be a recording ****space****, [story continued on page 2D.] **

Maureen set the paper down, absolutely enraged. She couldn't bring herself to read more--not with the backstabbing bulldog as the center of the article. He was going to destroy the loft! This was ridiculous; you can't box art. Nothing good was going to come of this, that was for sure. Maureen, still fuming, set about drawing horns and mustaches on the photo of Benny and Mr. Grey. She had to admit the effect was hysterical--Benny looked simply smashing in his horns, and Mr. Grey's mustache made him look like a walrus.

However fun doodling over Benny's smirking face was, Maureen decided this wasn't enough. Something had to be done, but what? An angry letter wouldn't do anything; nor would a phone call. Maybe a protest… that was it! A protest would be perfect, Maureen decided. It could be held in a lot somewhere, and that would get someone's attention! She smirked, opening up her new notebook to the first page. At the top, she wrote "Protest," and began filling out ideas as quickly as they came to her. She began to draw in cartoons, too—a frowning cow and a moon. One never knew what random doodles could lead to.

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Maureen ordered her fifth coffee--she had been there a couple of hours, and the caffeine proved invaluable at jumpstarting her brain. So far, she figured out that the cow was her protagonist. She decided to name her Elsie--it was a good cow name, but not so stereotypical like Betsy. Elsie lived in a place called Cyberland, where the poor cows weren't allowed produce milk; everyone in Cyberland drank Diet Coke. That was as far as Maureen had gotten when a smooth voice interrupted her train of thought.

"That's really interesting. Is she a cow?" Maureen spun around and discovered she was staring at the suspenders of a woman about her own age. She obviously wasn't a bohemian; her clothing was too well-made, and she carried herself with a different, confident air. She was carrying a mug of steaming tea and a croissant in one hand; she was there with the working, eating-breakfast-before-going-to-the-office crowd. The woman seemed friendly enough, though, so Maureen answered her question.

"Yes, she is."

"Oh, that's really cool," the woman replied, lifting the notebook off of the table and staring at her drawing. Maureen glared at her, standing up and holding her arm out for her book. The mystery woman was looking at her drawing with rapt attention. Maureen's hand dropped when she realize the woman was smiling. She had a pretty smile, one that met her eyes and made them sparkle like brown gems. The overall effect was dazzling; the mocha-skinned woman had an inner beauty that most people only wished they could possess.

She handed the notebook back to Maureen, flashing her a vibrant smile. "This is really cool. What's it for?" She asked. Maureen thought for a moment before replying.

"A protest," she said. "Our ex-roommate is going to kick us out, and I'm going to hold a protest, well, protesting it." The woman's eyes shot up; clearly interested.

"May I sit down? I want to hear more." She gestured to the empty chair. Maureen nodded and sank back into her seat, glad there was someone here whom she could bounce ideas off of and rant to, guilt-free.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: A big thank you to Stalker! You rock, dear, and I'll always be indebted to you. :D**

**Homemade lemon sorbet for my reviewers:**

**_The 1000th Kiss_**

**_i'llbeyourcoat_**

**_I-Stalk-Espinosa-xo_**

**_alinaandalion_**

**_PinkPolkaDot59_**

**_GorgeousSmile_**

**_isla rose_**

**and**

**_Roxasrockmysocks _(There were periods between each word, but they refused to show up.)**

**Kiss/Cangel, Coatie, Ali-sis, GorgeousSmile, and the always-amazing Stalker get chocolate chips for reviewing both chapters! Yay! **

**I don't own RENT. I would love to, though, but I doubt that'll ever happen....**

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Maureen enjoyed her conversation with Joanne; the woman was a very good listener, and she seemed genuinely interested in Maureen's life. In return, the lawyer (as Maureen soon found out) told her some interesting tales; about how she got into Harvard, her law firm, the cases she handled, and her childhood. She'd had a nice one, something that Maureen was secretly jealous of. In fact, Joanne's life was something to be jealous of: she was a successful lawyer, drop-dead gorgeous, and goodhearted.

"Oh, look at the time," Joanne said, gazing wistfully at her watch. Maureen was unhappy to note that it seemed to be made of some reptile's skin. Joanne followed her gaze and smirked, "It's fake."

"Oh. What time is it?" Maureen asked.

"Almost six forty-five. I need to be in the office by seven, so I'll have to go now...." Joanne's face fell; she was having a good time talking to Maureen. The "performance artist," as Maureen had called it, was an interesting person, and Joanne figured she had only skimmed the surface of Maureen's crazy life. She lived in a loft, Joanne had learned, with two roommates. There had been others, a girl (one roommate's now-deceased girlfriend) and two other guys (Maureen's best friend, and her landlord-enemy), but they weren't there anymore, for various reasons. Maureen had gone on to complain about her boyfriend--who, as far as Joanne could tell, was ignoring her--and her other roommate, who was a smack-addict and a lousy friend.

Maureen felt tears well up in her eyes. She hadn't gotten much sleep; otherwise she would have been able to handle this like a mature adult. "Oh. I guess this is goodbye. It's been lovely talking to you." She looked at the table as she spoke, trying to control herself.

"Hey, who said anything about goodbyes?" Joanne smiled and patted Maureen's shoulder, causing Maureen to jump. It felt like Joanne had zapped her, but it was a happy sort of zap.

"Here," Joanne scribbled her phone number onto a paper napkin. "Call me, you know, if you ever want to go out for lunch or something." Maureen lifted her head and looked at the paper, before gazing at Joanne with huge eyes.

"Really?"

"Really. You're an interesting person." Joanne patted her hand again. Maureen flashed her new friend a smile, petting her tingling hand under the table.

"Great!" Instantly, her tears dried and her chin stopped wobbling. Joanne smiled back; her smile was infectious. "I'll call you tomorrow," Maureen informed her. Joanne nodded, left some money on the table, and walked out of the restaurant. Maureen remained at the table for a few moments, staring at the scribbled number. _This is just what I need_, she decided. _A friend--one with no strings attached._

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The next day, Sunday, Maureen dialed Joanne's number--at least; she hoped it was the lawyer's. Maureen's stomach churned uncomfortably as the phone rang. What if Joanne gave her the number to a pizza place? What if Joanne didn't want to see her? What if, what if, what if! Maureen groaned, just as a familiar voice answered the phone.

"Joanne Jefferson. Who's calling?" The voice was slurred, as though the lawyer had just woken up. Maureen glanced at the clock, embarrassed to see it was only six in the morning. _Drat! You've woken Joanne up! Great going, Mo. _

"Hello?" Joanne said again, though she sounded more irate this time.

"Joanne?" _Of course it's her, you dolt. _

"Maureen! Hey!" Joanne sounded happy now, which made Maureen smile.

"Hi… did I wake you up?"

"Um, yeah, you did--" _Damn! _Maureen thought to herself. "--but I don't mind."

"I'm sorry," Maureen said, "I hope I didn't wake you from any good dreams."

"No, no you didn't," Joanne laughed. "I was ready to get up, anyways." It was a total lie, but it made Maureen feel a bit better.

"So…" Maureen trailed off, unsure. "I was hoping… um… er…" How the hell was she supposed to word this? She took a deep breath and tried again.

"D'you want to… um… see each other today?"

Joanne was silent for a moment, before saying, "All that for such a small sentence? I don't bite…. And yes, I'd love to see you. I go crazy with boredom on Sundays. Did you have a particular place in mind?"

"How about the Met?" The idea had come out of nowhere, Maureen was sure. It made sense, though; she hadn't been there in a while, and she loved the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She could loose herself in there.

"Oh," Joanne chuckled. "I haven't been there in years! Sounds great to me."

Maureen grinned. "I'll see you there… around two, you think?"

"Sounds perfect."

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Joanne stood outside of the museum, tapping her foot impatiently. Maureen was late. Only by five minutes, but it was five minutes out of Joanne's life that could have been spent on something productive.

Ten minutes later, when Joanne was about to leave, Maureen showed up, panting. It was obvious she had run a long way.

"I'm so sorry," Maureen tripped over one of the steps leading up to the platform. "I feel asleep, and then I had to figure out the bus to take and--"

"It's fine." Joanne instantly forgave her friend, catching the drama queen before she hit the hard floor.

"Shall we go in?" Maureen straightened her shirt and grabbed Joanne's arm.

"Sure," Joanne waited for Maureen to replenish her death grip on her sleeve, but the diva didn't show any signs of letting go. Joanne internally shrugged and led her friend to the front desk.

They walked through the museum in a companionable silence, stopping to comment on a piece of work every so often. Joanne was quite the art connoisseur, Maureen learned, as well as a dilettante--she really appreciated fine art.

The two women stopped simultaneously to admire a picture of a ballerina, who was holding a bouquet of flowers aloft. The metal plaque under the painting read _Dancer with a Bouquet of Flowers, Edgar Degas, 1878._

"I love ballet," Maureen said, reaching out a hand as though she wanted to touch the painting. She stopped mid-reach, her hand poised a few inches from the priceless painting.

"Me, too," Joanne smiled, captured by the masterpiece. "I love Degas; his style is so interesting. He's technically an Impressionist—but he hated that term. He preferred to be called a realist."

Maureen laughed. "With you around, who needs a guide?" She asked, half-joking. Joanne shrugged.

"I love art," was all she could come up with. "I studied it a lot, when I was younger."

"I studied ballet, when I was little," Maureen said. "My mom wanted me to go, so I went every week, but I was never good enough. My teacher said I didn't practice--to her credit, I didn't--and that I would go nowhere… I always wanted to prove her wrong."

Joanne sighed, remembering. "I tried to learn ballet, a few years ago. I wasn't very good… I prefer just watching it, now." Maureen nodded her head emphatically.

"We should go see one, if I ever get enough money…" Maureen trailed off, remembering her current state of brokenness.

Joanne smiled, "That would be nice."

And with that, the two friends wandered along the halls of the famous museum, silently appreciating fine art, and the wonders of friendship.

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**Review? **

**And, before she rips my head off, I did steal the rewarding reviewers idea from Shoes (DefyGravityinJeweledShoes, I believe.) Go read 'n' review her stories!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: HugehugeHUGE thank you to my superfuckingamazing beta, Stalker. YOU'RE AWESOME, MY FRIEND! She is _always _just... amazing. In every way. **

**Chilled watermellon slices for my reviewers:**

**_I-Stalk-Espinosa-xo_**

**_i'llbeyourcoat_**

**_PinkPolkaDots59_**

**_Roxasrockmysocks_**

**_GorgeousSmile_**

**_alinaandalion_**

**_Ti-girl_**

**_The Darklight Angel_**

**_Star's Snowflake_**

**and _The100thKiss _**

**THANK YOU!**

**I own nothing. **

**------------------------------**

"Look, Roger—" Mark said patiently. His arms were in front of his chest, palms out. For protection, Maureen assumed, or perhaps to show he was empty-handed. Either one was plausible.

"I don't want to 'just look'!" Roger interrupted his friend rudely. "My life is a fucking mess right now, and you aren't helping!"

"Using isn't making your life any better!" Mark cried, indignant.

"It is," Roger huffed, crossing his arms. "It's the _only _good part of my life."

Maureen bit the inside of her lip and hugged her knees, feeling like there was a dark, depressing cloud inside the loft, leeching all the happiness and laughter out of the room-- out of their life. _The loft, _Maureen thought, _used to be such a nice place… _a_ haven, for us all…_It must have_ died with April. _

The men continued arguing, but, thankfully, it didn't escalate into a full-blown fist fight. After a few insults were exchanged, Mark and Roger turned away from each other in a huff.

"You two are like a long-married couple," Maureen commented snidely. The words seemed to come out of nowhere; if she'd had any sense, and thought before she spoke, she would have kept her mouth shut. "Should I be worried?"

Roger simply glared at her, but Mark seemed to explode with anger.

"That's not funny, Maureen!" His face turned pink, except for his ears, which turned red. It made Maureen want to giggle.

"It was," she nodded, crossing her arms. "You've gotta admit it." This was the most recognition she'd gotten from Mark recently; it made her no less then ecstatic.

The tendons in Mark's neck bulged as he said, "It was _not_. It was rude and insensitive. Don't you think we've had enough to deal with, without you acting like an inconsiderate three-year-old?! Because you aren't--I know you aren't."

"Don't you think, maybe, that _I_ want attention?" Maureen shouted. "Don't you ever think I'm sad—no, angry!--because you're ignoring me?"

"I know…" Mark looked sad now, instead of angry. "But Mo, Roger needs me."

Maureen laughed, harshly. "He _needs _you?"

"Yes, he does."

"I'm not your dog!" Roger shouted, shoving Mark into a wall. "I don't need you! _You_ don't need to take careof me; I'm a grown adult! Fuck you!" He flipped his middle finger at Mark, then Maureen, before storming out of the room. Mark followed him, looking like a chastised child.

Maureen sat on the couch, tears welling in her eyes. _Why doesn't Mark love me any more? _She wondered, her face ashen. _Why can't we talk? What did _I_ do? What _can_ I do? _She started crying, her tears running down her chin and pooling onto her shirt. It was all so hopeless; they just weren't the same anymore. There was no love in this desolate hovel.

Maureen sobbed-- so loudly she feared her chest would burst. The loft was stuffy, even though the morning was cool. She ran out of the apartment, not caring that she looked like a wreck. Walking, even if it was away from her problems, always helped her feel better.

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The walk cleared Maureen's head, making all of her problems seem insignificant. There was a bum, sitting on a street corner, drinking his troubles away. There were some pigeons pecking at the ground, and a few squirrels alongside them. A young man was drumming on a sidewalk; Maureen paused to listen. He had a fantastic sense of rhythm; the seemingly random beats melded together and calmed Maureen even further. She left the boy—man, really, but his innocent, clean face seemed more boyish to her—two dollars after his song. He smiled at her happily, before pocketing the money. She smiled back, though she knew it didn't reach her eyes. He had given her the most genuine smile she'd seen since the museum with Joanne—Joanne!

Maureen ran toward a pay phone, digging around in her pocket for change. She would call Joanne! The woman would listen to her, sympathize, and come up with a solution: Joanne was talented like that.

She shoved her change into the slot and dialed Joanne's cell phone number. Maureen had been impressed when she'd learned Joanne had a cell phone—those things were expensive.

"Joanne Jefferson," the smooth voice said. Joanne always answered the phone with her name; it was a hard-wired habit.

"H-hi," Maureen's voice cracked with emotion. "It's Maureen."

"Hello," Joanne said sociably. "You sound sad; is everything all right?"

"No, not really," Maureen slouched, "Life happens, stuff happens."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Maureen hesitated. "That would be really nice… actually, I'd love that. Not on the phone, though, because my money's about to run out." It was, in fact. She'd only been able to scrounge up three quarters, which hadn't bought her much time.

"Do you want to come over for lunch?" Joanne asked. "My book can wait, I'd much rather have some company."

Maureen smiled, "Are you sure? I don't mind just… waiting... I'll be fine." Her voice sounded sad, depressed; even to her.

"No, really, I insist. Talking to someone _always _helps." Joanne sounded confident, sure of herself and her principals. It made Maureen happy.

"Are you one hundred percent sure? I'm interrupting your lunch break."

"One hundred percent, no-doubt-in-my-mind sure. I don't leave friends, especially good ones, who need to talk. Seriously. I'll see you soon!" She gave Maureen her work address, telling her to order some food from a nearby café. Maureen readily accepted, smiling into the receiver. Joanne really did know how to make any situation better. Lunch would be perfect, she was sure.

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**Review, please? I love reviews....**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I don't own RENT, I rent RENT! **

**I'd like to give a _huge _thank you to my poor beta, Stalker. I got this chapter back with so, so, _so_ many good suggestions, I feel like I'm taking advantage of her awesomness and creativity. So, my lovely readers, if you want to do something awesome, go read and review her stories! :D**

**Key lime cookies with white chocolate chips for my reviewers: **

**_alinaandalion_**

**_GorgeousSmile_**

**_Star's Snowflake _**

**_The Darklight Angel_**

**_I-Stalk-Espinosa-xo_**

**_The 1000th Kiss_**

**_Roxasrockmysocks_**

**_i'llbeyourcoat _**

**Thank you!**

**-------------**

"It's so Goddamn annoying!" Maureen growled, slamming her hands down on Joanne's desk for emphasis. She was glad that Joanne's office was soundproof; otherwise, the lawyer's co-workers and their clients could hear her angry rants, and that would be very bad news for Joanne.

"I imagine so!" Joanne took another bite of her gyro and grabbed her napkin, dabbing her lips with it. "I haven't had a roommate since college… It wasn't my thing, you know? I like privacy, and neatness."

Maureen nodded, jabbing a carrot slice into a container of hummus. She munched on it, before saying, "I can tell, about the neatness; this room glows." Joanne blushed, taking another neat bite of her gyro.

"Does Mark know you are here?" She asked after a moment.

"No," Maureen shrugged and stabbed her hummus with a slice of apple. "He's not my mother; I never want to see him again."

"Isn't that a bit drastic?" Joanne asked, eyebrows raised. "After all, he _is_ your boyfriend. But I suck at dating advice—seriously, don't listen to me. Do what's good for you, not what's good for someone else." That was the right advice, Joanne discovered. Maureen's answering smile brightened the room.

"Maybe, but I am a drama queen," Maureen smirked, licking her hummus-covered fingers clean.

Joanne chuckled. "Now that's true!"

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Maureen hurried home, trying to beat the gray clouds that loomed overhead. She blended into the stream of bustling New Yorkers, who swarmed the streets until it was almost impossible to move. _This is the city I love…._

_----------_

"Where the hell were you?" Mark asked, his voice edgy, as soon as she ducked through the door.

"Out," Maureen said sourly, her good mood evaporating like a rainbow being replaced by a raging hurricane.

"That's not a good enough answer," Mark crossed his arms over his chest.

"I don't have to tell you," Maureen informed him coolly.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't have to tell you anything." Maureen stuck her chin out stubbornly. "Why do you care where I was?"

"Because I'm your boyfriend!" Mark finally shouted. "I love you, Maureen! You just stormed out of here this morning; you could've gotten hurt—or worse! I can't always be the grown-up here, Mo! You and Roger, you guys are a full time job."

Maureen's temper boiled. She hated it when Mark treated her like a child, and she snapped. "Don't you dare! Don't say that, Mark; I'm not Roger! You don't have to watch me like I'm a toddler!"

"What do you mean?" Mark whispered. He only whispered when he was _really _angry. "You haven't been showing me how mature you are lately! You leave suddenly, you don't come back until late, you go days without talking to me. There are more, I just can't remember them. "

"Shut up!" Maureen hissed, stomping to their shared room and locking the door, before collapsing onto their bed and sobbing.

"What the—Maureen!" Mark said loudly, pounding on the door.

"M-Mark?" Roger called from his bedroom. "Water?"

Mark turned around, mid-pound, to go fetch the water for Roger, whose withdrawal from heroin wasn't going too well. Maureen continued to sob, occasionally crying self-pitying things like, "Nobody loves me!" and "You love Roger more!"

An hour later, after Maureen had finally calmed down, Mark knocked softly on their bedroom door.

"It's open," Maureen called quietly from underneath the pile of blankets she'd tented over herself. Mark tried the door and discovered it was unlocked. He made his way over to the bed, lifting up the covers and crawling in with Maureen. He embraced her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She stiffened, then relaxed in his all-too-familiar grip.

"I'm sorry," Mark whispered into her hair. Maureen nodded and buried her face into his shirt, inhaling deeply, cherishing his smell.

"Can I take you to dinner?" He asked, petting her curls.

"Yeah," Maureen whispered, uncaring.

"We haven't done anything together for a while, have we?" Mark asked softly.

"No, we haven't." Maureen tried not to sound bitter, but she failed.

"You understand why, right?"

"Yeah. Roger needed you. I didn't."

"Wha—no! That sounds so mean, Mo… that's not how it happened."

"Where are we going?" Maureen said quickly, interrupting him.

"Where do you want to go?"

"How about that place? You know, the one with the cool floors?"

"Sure! As soon as you're ready, tell me, okay?" Mark kissed the top of her head and left. Maureen stayed curled up for a few moments, before springing up and walking into her closet, excited about the prospect of a date. It'd been too long, it really had.

----------

"Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit." Mark muttered, patting his pockets. They'd had a lovely time, until now. The food was delicious, the restaurant's staff polite and kind, and the couple enjoyed catching up on lost time.

"What?" Maureen shoveled the last bite of cake into her mouth, letting the rich chocolate melt on her tongue.

"Shit," Mark said again, his pale cheeks turning pink. "I—I forgot my wallet."

"Oh, Mark…" Maureen sighed, laying her face in her hands.

"You don't happen to have any money on you, do you?" Mark said, ashamed.

Maureen took off her shoe, reaching inside and pulling out about thirty dollars. "Will this do?" She asked, worried. Mark counted it out, his face growing redder with each passing second.

"We're a few bucks short… I'll come back later and pay." He sighed and flagged down the waiter, who looked at them disapprovingly when they told him their predicament.

"I'm sorry," Maureen said, looking up at their waiter hopefully. "Do we have to do dishes now?" The waiter laughed and said:

"Maybe. Let me go get my manager." He turned on his heel and left, coming back a few minutes later with a nondescript woman. Maureen smiled at her hopefully.

"We'll come back and pay the rest tomorrow, I promise." Mark said quickly, his entire face crimson now.

"That's fine," the woman said, taking the change and counting it out. "You aren't the first ones to do this. I'll need your address or phone number, just in case you 'forget' or don't show up."

"We won't forget," Maureen said as Mark scribbled their phone number onto a paper napkin. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks.

"Thank you," Mark said. He was so red, his hair took on a pinkish tone. "I'm really sorry."

"It's fine," the waiter waved them off as Maureen dragged Mark out by the arm.

"That was embarrassing," she muttered, storming off towards the loft. Mark followed her slowly, his red face turned earth-ward.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This chapter was hard to write! I'm sure that will be obvious further down. Have I mentioned I can't write romance? (Anyone who tortured themselves and read my first fic, _Summer Time!_ can vouch.)**

**Thank you, as always, to my suffering beta, I-Stalk-Espinosa-xo. She took my poor little draft, waved her magic beta-wand, and made this amazing! You go girl!**

**Warm, just-taken-out-of-the-oven, oatmeal raisin chocolate chip cookies for my reviewers! :D**

**_GorgeousSmile_**

**_PinkPolkaDots59_**

**_Star's Snowflake_**

**_rainbowstripeblonde_**

**_The 1000th Kiss_**

**_i'llbeyourcoat_**

**_I-Stalk-Espinosa-xo_**

**_Roxasrockmysocks_**

**_Megan Faye_**

**Temporary hiatus coming up: My grandparents are kidnapping me. Be back in about two weeks, or so! Anyway, enjoy the chapter.**

---------

The couple walked home in icy silence; Maureen was still mortified about what had happened at the restaurant, and Mark was too ashamed to bring anything up with her.

They both knew something was wrong the second they stepped through the door—Roger was lying on the metal table, pale and moaning in pain. Mark ran over to him, making sure his pulse was okay and that he was still breathing fine. Maureen stood in the doorway, trying not to cry. She hadn't even talked with Mark about taking her out to dinner, and he was already caring for Roger. Maureen sighed and sat down, watching Mark half-drag, half-carry Roger back to his room. After waiting for a while, she decided to get up and see how Mark was doing. She met him just as he was walking out of the bedroom, looking exhausted.

"Hey baby," Maureen whispered, pulling Mark into a hug. "I just wanted to say thank you for taking me out… I know how hard it is to leave here." He smiled at that.

"Yeah. It is."

"Mm-hmm," she grunted, slowly moving her fingers under the back of Mark's shirt, hoping to entice him.

"Not now, Maureen," he sighed, pulling her hands out from his shirt. "I'm not in the mood."

"But we haven't had sex in _forever_!" Maureen protested, glaring at him.

"I know, Mo." He said, walking to the kitchen and grabbing a cup, filling it with water.

Maureen followed him. "But _when_?"

"Soon," he tried placate her. "I don't have an exact date."

Maureen huffed and stalked to the bedroom, changing into her pajamas and flopping on the bed. She started playing with her (Mark's, really) T-shirt, twisting the soft fabric between her fingers and playing with loose threads. They were a pretty shade of brown; much like Joanne's skin. She smiled, thinking of Joanne. The woman was probably home right now, reading a good book or playing with her cat. _She _had a life, unlike Maureen. The brunette sighed and flipped over to her side, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. In, out… in, out… in, out… _sleep. _

-------

Maureen knew she was dreaming. She just _knew _it. There was something about the way the walls slanted at unreal angles, or the fact that there was a lamp in the middle of the ceiling. Joanne was standing in front of her, wearing a really low-cut shirt and talking about something that obviously interested her, judging by the way her hands were moving as she spoke. Maureen watched the dream-Joanne talk, smiling to herself. Joanne really poured her heart into things, even in dreams.

"I love you," Joanne said, exhaling. Maureen felt guilty; she hadn't been paying attention to what the dream-Joanne was saying.

"Okay…" Maureen said, looking at Joanne strangely. "Are you high or something?"

"Were you even listening?" Dream-Joanne chuckled, moving closer to Maureen. Almost too close.

"Not really," she confessed, "I was too busy watching you." Joanne smiled brightly at this, wrapping her hands around Maureen's arms and squeezing gently.

They were so close now; dream-Maureen swore she could smell Joanne's special coconuts-and-lemon scent.

"You smell good," Maureen informed her. It was true. Or maybe Maureen spent too much time around unwashed roommates and smoky streets. The mocha-skinned woman laughed, wrapping her arms around Maureen's waist.

"You do too," Joanne said, "Like sugar… or vanilla." Maureen wondered why; she didn't smell particularly sugary in real life. _Maybe Joanne likes that…._

Dream-Maureen couldn't think of anything to say just then, so, in the strange way dreams go, she filled the silence by kissing Joanne on the lips. Her lips were soft, yielding, but firm, too. They were the exact opposites of Mark's. Joanne moaned and deepened the kiss, reaching under Maureen's shirt to unclasp her bra.

And then—Maureen woke up, sweaty and bothered and confused, with the lingering memory of the kiss still on her lips. _What does this mean, now? That I love her—that I love my friend? This is baffling… _she rolled over, expecting to hit Mark, but he wasn't there. Maybe _that's _why she had such a strange dream; she hated sleeping alone.

"Mark?" She called out weakly, tiptoeing from the bedroom to the main room. The sight she saw there just made her smile sadly: Mark and Roger were sleeping on their beat-up couch. It was obvious the men had passed out there; Roger was clutching a bucket, and Mark was clutching his beloved blue-and-white Scarf.

Maureen walked over to table, scribbling a note on a scrap of paper with a crayon.

_Dear Mark, _it read.

_I'm going out. See you later._

_--M. _

_And now, _Maureen thought, _to the bookstore. _She always thought better—got more work accomplished—at the bookstore.

-------

_Well that was productive…_ Maureen glanced at her watch. It had been a productive seven hours; she was almost done with the rough draft of her protest. She made her way slowly back to the loft, clutching her fuzzy notebook and pen.

"Maureen!" She heard behind her. She spun around, coming face-to-face with Benny.

"Erm… hi, Benny."

"Hey Mo, how've you been? How's Mark? And Roger? Is he any better?" Benny had his arm around a young, pretty girl. She didn't look a day older than eighteen, though she wore enough make-up to pass for at least twenty-five.

"Good, good, okay." Maureen said, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. "What did you want?"

"Rent," Benny said simply.

"You said we were free!" Maureen's jaw dropped open. "You _cannot _be serious."

"But I am. Things haven't been going so great… I'm opening up a studio, and I need all the money I can get."

"I haven't got enough on me right now," Maureen said. It was true. Sort of. "We'll get back to you later, you backstabbing mutt." _Mutt? Where did _that _come from? _

"Don't call him that!" The girl said, holding up two strong-looking fists. _Feisty._

"Who are you?" Maureen asked coolly.

"Mimi." The girl said, still glaring.

"Nice, Mimi. You know your boyfriend has a wife, right? Allison will be jealous, Benny, if you start paying more attention to this youngin' here."

"What?" Mimi gasped, sliding out of Benny's grasp. "She's joking, right?"

Maureen turned on her heel and left before she could see the end of _that _conversation, though she had a feeling the outcome would not be good. Benny deserved whatever he got, though, the back-stabbing cretin he was.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Next chapter! Yay. :) **

**Thank you, dear Pookie-love-beta-person (Stalker), for taking the time to look over my story, and everything. I'm forever indebted to you. :)**

**I asked my mom what I should give you guys, and she responded with "Strawberries!!!" So, chocolate covered strawberries for my reviewers: **

_**The Darklight Angel**_

**_Roxasrockmysocks_**

**_Megan Faye_**

**_alinaandalion_**

**_The 1000th Kiss_**

**_Star's Snowflake _**

**_GorgeousSmile_**

**_Don (Hey, you left the anonymous review! ;) )_**

**_------------_**

Maureen stomped into the loft. She wasn't angry; she just loved the sound her boots made against the concrete floor.

_Stomp. Stomp. Stomp! Stomp. Stomp. Stomp! _

Maureen opened the door and was assaulted by a pungent, burning smell. She held her hand to her nose and looked around for the source. There, on the metal table, was a roll of partially-burned film and a box of matches. _That _explained the smell, but the reasoning behind it was a mystery to Maureen. Mark and Roger sat on opposite ends of the couch, arguing. The diva assumed it was about the film—surly they had run out of other things to argue about?

"Hi, guys," she interrupted them, biting her lip. "Benny wants—"

"Not now, Maureen," Mark waved his hand dismissively at her, not looking up. "Rog… I know this has been hard for you--"

"Hard?" Roger snorted. "It's fucking _Hell_. I found it—no, wait, it found me."

"Stop exaggerating!" Mark snapped, clutching his camera protectively. "You act like you're the only person here! Don't you think it's been hard for me, too?"

"Your girlfriend is still alive." Roger said, childishly turning away from him. "You don't need smack; your body doesn't hurt all the time. You aren't about to _die._"

Mark sighed. He had nothing else to say; they'd had this conversation umpteen times.

"Hey," Maureen interjected, "Benny wa—"

"And what's more!" Roger said, clenching his hands together. "You don't have a scarf-wearing, mothering, goddamn _annoying_ roommate who tries to run your life!" Mark looked like he could cry.

"I don't try to run your life…" he protested weakly.

"Why couldn't I burn it, then?" Roger asked, gesturing to the film and matches. "It's mine."

"It was Apr—hers." It was forbidden to say April's name. Nobody had said it aloud since the day they put her, lifeless, in the ground. "I have as much claim to it as you; I made it for her."

Roger opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Finally, he laid his head in his hands—the epitomic sign of defeat. Maureen rolled her eyes and said, "Nobody is going to listen to me, right?" Not surprisingly, there was no answer. Maureen shrugged and walked over to the telephone, picking it up and bringing it to the linen closet, where she would have minute privacy. She dialed Joanne's number, tapping her fingers on the wooden shelving impatiently.

"Hello, Joanne Jefferson speaking. Who is calling?" Joanne answered curtly. Maureen heard rustling in the background; Joanne must have been writing something.

"Hey Joanne, it's me!" Maureen smiled into the phone.

"Oh, hi, Maureen," Joanne said happily. The rustling noise stopped. "I was just wondering when you'd call me; it's been almost twenty-four hours, and that would be a personal record." Maureen giggled.

"You're just fun to talk to. You're a good listener… I know I can trust you." Joanne chuckled.

"Thanks. Now, was there a specific reason you wanted to call me, or did you just want to hear the sound of my voice?" Joanne snorted; Maureen laughed.

"Both, maybe? Last night was just horrible; mind if I rant?"

"Not at all. Wait, hold on. Radames! Get back here." There was more scuffling in the backround, and a muffled yowl. "Sorry, my crazy cat decided that important papers are his new favorite toy." Joanne laughed. "Anyways…"

"So. My life sucks." Maureen sighed, curling up in a tight ball so she could fit on top of her threadbare winter blanket. She fit—barely.

Joanne hissed sympathetically. "What happened now?" She asked. There was a _chomp _noise that crackled over the phone; Maureen assumed it was Joanne biting down on the end of a pen.

"I'd have to do backflips in a dish towel to get Mark or Roger to notice me." Maureen fumed. "It's really getting on my nerves."

"I imagine so!" Joanne sympathized. "It's getting on _my _nerves, and it's not even happening to me."

Maureen smiled, glad that Joanne understood. "And then I bumped into Benny last night—you know, the one I'm writing my protest about? Yeah, him. He wants rent! And he told us we were free… to grieve for April, and get Roger back on his feet and everything. That fuck!"

"That's just rude; downright rude," Joanne said angrily. "I can't believe you used to _live _with him."

"He was a different guy, back then," Maureen sighed, remembering. "He and I used to always play pranks on Collins… and then Collins and I would always play pranks on him. They double-teamed me, a few times… I'd wake up and find my underwear hanging from the windowsill, or fake blood on my clothes. Those were the days!"

"I bet," Joanne said enthusiastically. "You should write a book about your life; I'd definitely read it."

Maureen's smile slid into a frown. "But it doesn't have a happy ending…" she muttered. "All stories need to have a happy ending."

"No they don't," Joanne disagreed. "They could have sad ones."

"But only really _good _books have happy endings."

"What about _Romeo and Juliet_? That had a sad ending, and it was good."

"I didn't like it." Maureen rolled her eyes. "Therefore, it was bad."

Joanne laughed. "Nu-huh."

"Uh-huh."

"Nu-huh."

"Uh-huh!"

"Maureen?" Mark called from the kitchen. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the closet!" She called back. "I'll be out in a minute!" Mark didn't respond.

Joanne laughed into her phone. "You're in the closet? Whatever for?"

"Privacy, what else?" She laughed too; Joanne's was infectious. It was warm, and light, but with a hint of gravel to it. Maureen loved it.

"I wouldn't know," Joanne chortled, "I've never hung out in a closet before." _That isn't true_, she thought to herself.

"Well, it's fun. You could hang out in mine, if you want!" Maureen sniggered.

"No, thanks," Joanne said quickly, her dark cheeks blushing. She was glad Maureen couldn't see her.

"Oh…" Maureen trailed off. "Can I finish my rant now?"

"I have to go now, actually," Joanne said. It wasn't a lie, exactly: Radames's new favorite toy wouldn't write and/or file itself.

"Oh," Maureen sighed sadly. She had hoped that Joanne would stay on the phone longer; the drama queen needed to talk to someone, and Joanne _was _cheaper than therapy.

"Hush," Joanne rolled her eyes. "How about we go out to dinner soon? That way, you can talk and I can listen, _and _I can have a piece of chocolate cake in the process!" Maureen couldn't help but laugh.

"Sounds good! When—and where—should we meet?"

"How about tomorrow—no, two nights from now--at this lovely little bistro with the most _amazing _chocolate cake." Joanne said, twirling a pen around her fingers.

"Sure," Maureen bit her lip. "Tomorrow's tomorrow is so far away, though…"

"Keep your chin up," Joanne said, "and be glad you don't have to work. Or go out to dinner with your parents, who are still convinced they need to find you the _perfect _date."

Maureen snorted. "Mine were like that, too, until I found Mark."

In Joanne's house, Radames knocked down a vase, causing Joanne to say:

"Damn! Rada! I've got to go, Maureen--I'll see you later! Bye." She hung up. Maureen remained a few moments longer, trying to ignore the fluttering sense of déjà vu in her stomach. _A dinner date… let's hope this one goes a bit better._

**_-------------_**

**A/N: Guess what, readers? In a few days, I'm being dragged to go visit my _other _set of grandparents. For two weeks. Unbelieveable, no? I'll update when I come home. Sorry they are so sporatic!**


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